I realized about 35 years ago, that I was a writer. I was sort of a weird child and I found myself writing quite frequently. There was poetry under the trees at our family farm, short stories in the hay mow and the long stories stayed in my mind, where I edited and reedited them into adulthood. Life has a way of getting away on you though and it becomes more and more difficult to follow the heart, go forward, do what you want. Grown ups are, as was the case with me, propelled by our own reality. Our life’s work, school, children and responsibility take us into places that we never imagined at eight, would be our lives. Surviving in this world takes more than any young person can really understand.
It may sound funny but I made my living as a writer for a long time – but is was not what I wanted. The dry writing of educational advancement was not exactly the stuff of my dreams. As a little girl I was lost in the stories of girls that could be me. I loved Judy Blume but devoured all the books in my school library. I ran away with Virginia Woolf later on. Dreamed with Douglas Coupland. Time travelled with Ken Follett and I even plotted with Dan Brown recently, but never took the time to scribble a book of my own in a room of my own. It is nuts, really, because I carry so much stuff in my head that if I could get rid of some of it I would have space for growth and more creative development. So even as I speak (er… write) I think about the books that must come out of my head and be committed to paper. There are 7 of them – each is outlined – characterized and on paper ready to go. One has the first two chapters already in order and on paper.
I hope that I can write as well as I can put off the writing! Now at 42, I have for the first time in my life the opportunity to write. I have a room, a computer and a husband who supports me for one year while I write. No job, no kids (in two weeks) and time to bring it to fruition.
Hopefully I can handle the isolation. Hopefully I can write!
